rose, fox, serpent, stars

poetry, one supposes (sumire@sputniksweethe.art)

spinning skipping across a starstrewn glass floor my feet made light, and with a feeling— what feeling?

music sparking like an eternity of sunrises in my crystal veins, the whispers impossible— what whispers?

you, you, you all you oh, no — nothing of consequence just the whole world a dewdrop in my palm a ganglion of love swelling upon my soul you, you, you only you

in these whirling moments I believe the wild horses can run home the cavalry can gather once more and this time—

I will get up and dance, I will cling like there is no tomorrow, I will twine my fingers with yours, I will not be afraid — oh, you, cynosure of all hearts in my heart from where you drew the sword of the gods you, Bourbon rose with each petal a phoenix feather — I will say yes.

you, you, you.

yes, yes, yes.

Langston, dear heart, I need you to know: I would wield that knife with the precision of a surgeon the skill of an architect the grace of a dancer the love of a new mother. but no matter how often I excise those worms from the tender flesh of the world beneath (waiting, ripe to be cherished waiting, like us) they return, and return, and return.

but I will sharpen the knife and I will not stop. I will wield it again, and again, and again with the determination of a poet.

Stay no longer by strands clouded with somnolence, Turn your eyes and your wild soul where the tide roars, The waves, calling echoes, will haul our silver galleons, Gloriously wailing with the gale-might of a stormy sea.

Will you not heed the summons of rising waters? Will you not seek the white sails of great ships awaiting? Does your heart not yearn still for the murmuring depths, For the towering waves where all distance is conquered?

waiting for a word for over an hour spitting out apologies lost in a mist of misunderstanding the songs that shaped a tender soul like bruise on repeat the final love letter written to the blue-eyed boy who vanished like a heartbeat waiting for the 560 to do something, anything — nothing

waking up with “Snowing in Sapporo” playing in your head

nothing

they always say that someone else says that nothing lasts forever. I suppose they're right. even the eternal stars aren't all that eternal in the face of the heat death of the universe.

this is my way of cushioning my soul against the fact that I know we're over. maybe we were just a star that burned out.

but the universe still hums around us. I still inhabit the body of the girl you called your best friend.

maybe we never had eternity. maybe we just had now. maybe now is over.

but if I step outside, I can still see stars. maybe somewhere in the wreckage of us, a flame still burns.

but all I am seems to be a wave of seawater. I crash in, then pull away. I douse the flame with my very nature.

nothing lasts forever, except maybes.

maybe, one day, you'll forgive me.

the memories creep up from where I hid them sticky vine fingers sliding upwards into consciousness venomous flowers bursting into bloom with curious schadenfreude at their own existence and I breathe their noxious perfume in then fall.

I will never know if the choice I made while balancing on the edge of a white powdered razorblade a pinpoint heel-turn that changed the whole world that shattered every last idle dream left and made the stars leave any possible sky was right.

the memories play back in watercolour. and I suppose, once, they were beautiful.

the quietness of 'after' the liquid stillness and maybeness of what's to come next after the four hundred settles there will be a headache a dream-strangled sleep what else? what other pains? any joy? any lifting off the plain of existence fuelled by daily despair? they'd ask me why. I couldn't blame them but they'd not like the answers because heading downwards, cocooned in an air chrysalis waiting for a sunset or a sunrise, you don't get that picky, really— is better than standing naked in their icestorm reality pretending, pretending, failing to pretend that you are a superheroine who swallows lightning who wears springtime's vernal defiance in her eyes who stares knowingly and loving into a future unseen. the silence of 'after': the silence of “oh, she did it again”. I hope this silence will envelope those who create it, and buffer them from the Finality, creeping over a bleeding horizon crawling on skinned knees, pulling itself up with mangled fingers, caught in the machinery of life. when you step into the 'after', whether alive or dead you know of its savagery, first hand you would not wish it on the worst of humanity.

stormrosedream, I watch your petals twist through gales more severe and beautiful than even your eyes everything about you is a tragedy and a triumph that fills my heart and seeps through its cracks trickles downwards to my fingertip and through your malice, your beauty, your wonder I breathe you in — inspiration, oh cynosure dearest with you, with you I could even fall in love.

the world's gonna catch on fire, they say I could fear and I do but I'd rather walk forward and catch that blaze myself take me with you, mama! set me free, every atom to become, once again — to change into stars worlds planets others there must be another world after this after the conflagration days and I believe this, like holding a flame on my tongue— it's gotta be better than what we never meant to set alight. let me catch it, too let me go with you.

don't cry, Kudryavka you're not alone out there starwards heading more than a cosmic flash amongst the space junk I hear your transmission my soul's there with you we'll run through starfields through the static of missed signals until we find something better than the Earth that ejected us we'll whirl like satellites of love somewhere we belong amongst the foreverness eternal, happy so don't cry, Zhuchka